


What Remains

by tariana



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Death, Hospitals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tariana/pseuds/tariana
Summary: Lance reflects on what remains after JC's sudden death.(Christ, I wrote a lot of little NSYNC ficlets a long time ago. Maybe you'll like them?)





	What Remains

Open me, the box beckoned, entreated, coerced.

Open me.

Open me, and look at what remains.

From where Lance sat, poured bonelessly into an armchair, the box looked menacing.

To a person in anything even vaguely resembling a normal frame of mind, it was simply a box.

A small box at that -- less than a cubic foot. Smaller than the box Dirk had ridden home from the pet store in. Smaller than than most of the boxes Lance had packed his belongings in when he and JC had moved into this house.

To a person in a normal frame of mind, it would simply be a box.

Lance, however, had left normal almost four days ago.

After running a hand through his hair, he lifted the glass that had been his near-constant companion for that ninety-six hours to his lips, finding it empty.

Cursing under his breath, he fumbled beside the chair for the bottle, gripping it by its neck and marveling at its lightness.

As Lance tilted the bottle, half-filling the glass, he watched the amber liquid ebbing from the bottle. Ebbing like blood, like life, like love.

His hand shook, and the bottle jittered against the glass with a jangling sound. A few drops spilled from the mouth of the bottle, splashing onto the glass surface of the end table.

Pale green eyes stared, nearly unseeing and yet transfixed, at the small beads of moisture, sparkling like Home Shopping Network diamond rings, glowing like pale moonlight had two nights past, reflecting off the tears streaming down Justin's face.

Alcohol, like tears.

Tears Lance couldn't cry anymore.

He'd cried when he'd realized what had happened. He'd cried, oh, yes. He'd cried, screamed, hyperventilated, and eventually had to be sedated.

But now, he couldn't cry.

All he felt was numbness. An all-seeing, all-knowing, all-emcompassing numbness that obliterated all else.

Open me.

Lance's head jerked up as the box, which had fallen silent, spoke up again.

Open me, Lance. Be reminded of what you've lost.

Almost against his will, Lance pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to stand above the box, looking down on the flimsy cardboard mockery of a container that had arrived with the mailcarrier yesterday.

Plain brown cardboard. His name and address scrawled in thick black marker. A return address indicating that the box had come from the hospital where JC had left the world.

Lance stood like this for a long while, head bent as if in prayer, studying the box that held the physical remainder of what was precious, of what had been his life.

Then he bent to tear open the box, to see what did remain.

Shockingly little -- cell phone, wallet, the small notebook that had always resided in JC's back pocket, and -- oh, Jesus -- the pendant JC'd always worn, the cord cut by an EMT in what had been a vain attempt at lifesaving.

Lance had sat in the waiting room, completely uninjured and nearly catatonic, as, a few rooms away, JC was treated, stopped breathing, was resucitated, and finally died.

Died.

Such a final word. Such an unfair word.

Death. Dying. Died.

All of them, solemn, cruel, unforgiving.

Lance held the pendant in his hand for a great long while, then brought it to his lips, kissing it as if this would bring JC back to him.

It didn't.

It wouldn't.

It never could.

Lance gently placed the items back in the box, pendant last, and folded the top of the box up again.

Then he walked slowly upstairs, collapsing on the bed he and JC had shared.

In a few minutes, he was asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by a combination of exhaustion and alcohol.

Here, in sleep, there were memories.

Memories of laughing blue eyes and a beautiful voice. Memories of the touches only a lover could bestow. Memories of songs and laughter, light and love, and all that JC had brought to his life.

That night, Lance slept the sleep of the contented that had been missing from his life as of late. He slept the sleep of someone for whom memories would be enough.

Because, in the end, what remains are the memories.


End file.
